


The Hundred

by hjbender



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M, One Word Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 23:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7458295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjbender/pseuds/hjbender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of 100-word drabble prompts written for the GW fandom, featuring various pairings, themes, timelines, universes, and genres.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hundred

**Author's Note:**

> The Gundam Wing 100 list can be found [here](http://hjbender.tumblr.com/post/146953630599), and is open to anyone who wishes to participate.

**[1. Witch]**

It came on slowly, with the onset of puberty. He’d been dealing with it three years now. Hiding his powers was the easy part; it was his eyes that usually got him in trouble.

He took to wearing sunglasses during the day and avoiding prolonged eye contact—and he _never_ let anyone see him after dark. Something about the night caused his eyes to glow like bioluminescent algae. Maybe that was why he could see so well.

There were moldy, archaic words for people like him. Duo laughed off the implications and made jokes about broomsticks, cauldrons, and black cats.

**[2. Loneliness]**

Isolation was what did him in. His powers were growing and it was harder to pretend he was normal. He began to withdraw from people. He was strange enough already; he didn’t want to give his friends another reason to fear him.

But they were his friends, and he should have known they’d be worried for him.

When Heero caught him one night idly plucking moonbeams out of the air and rolling them in his palms, Duo recoiled, hiding his face in shame. But Heero lifted his chin and stared boldly into his violet eyes.

“We miss you. Come back.”

* * *

**[3. Fabrication]**

When word got out that Quatre had a writing hobby, no one was surprised. He was already an accomplished musician, artist, and linguist. Writing was the next logical step.

But when rumor arose that Quatre’s preferred genre was hardcore romance disguised as historical fiction, everyone chuckled. _Please_. Quatre was still a virgin. What could he know? Besides, Oliver Faris already had that market cornered. Now _that guy_ could write 18 th century sex. Duo had a couple novels from his _Grenadier_ series and whoa _buddy_. Talk about steamy.

How Quatre got his hands on an autographed manuscript was a complete mystery.

* * *

**[4. Dictator]**

“But eleven o’clock isn’t late!” Niina Maxwell bawled. “ _Morgan’s_ parents are letting her stay out ‘til one!”

“I don’t care what Morgan’s parents do. Your curfew is eleven. We already agreed on this, remember?”

“But Dad, it’s _prom night_! It won’t even be _over_ by then!”

Duo turned to Heero. “Well, Papa, should we keep her home or knock the curfew back to ten like you originally wanted?”

Niina’s eyes filled with tears. “You are _such_ a _dictator_!” she cried, and fled upstairs to her room.

Heero sighed.

“I hope Richi’s easier to deal with when he’s sixteen,” Duo brooded.

_**A/N:** Niina  → ni → 2; Richi → ichi → 1_

* * *

**[5. Dinner]**

Duo had a lot to learn about Japanese culture.

After a successful raid by Preventers at a chemical weapons lab orbiting L3, Heero, in an oddly human gesture of civility, invited Duo over to his apartment for dinner that evening. Duo was quietly elated. He’d been trying to score a date with Heero for years.

“Nineteen-hundred,” Heero instructed. “Semi-formal.”

At 18:55, wearing a slim charcoal three-piece and carrying a bottle of Sémillion, Duo stepped into Heero’s apartment and nearly died of shock.

Heero lay stretched out on a linen-draped buffet table, naked but for the sushi adorning his nubile body.

* * *

**[6. Ballroom]**

Noin lurked at the edges of the charity gala, feeling fat and overdressed in her pleated jade-green gown, when she felt a gentle hand on her arm and turned to the first familiar face she’d seen all night.

Quatre Winner, still four years and five inches her junior, smiled up at her warmly. “May I have this dance, Mrs Peacecraft?” 

She felt silly at first, following the lead of her young partner across the ballroom floor, but Quatre was a fine dancer and a complete gentleman, and kept a respectful—if unnecessary—distance between himself and her round, pregnant belly.

* * *

**[7. Protect]**

The machines of fear ran hot after Pearl Harbor. Hiiro could see the writing on the wall, could have fled east to New York and friends, but San Francisco was his home. “Let them come and take me,” he said.

So they did.

In April 1942, three men from the War Relocation Authority marched Hiiro Yui out of his 10:00 class at SFSU. Duo Maxwell, a red-blooded American patriot who loved his country and hated Hitler, tackled one of the men and would have probably killed him if Hiiro hadn’t stepped in.

Duo howled as Hiiro was led peaceably away.

**[8. Form]**

He wrote to Hiiro as often as possible. Sometimes he got letters back, though they were weeks old and had already been edited by censors. Names and places were obscured by black blocks, but Hiiro seldom mentioned those things. He reassured Duo that he was fine and looking forward to seeing him again soon. Sometimes he sent an origami animal or a haiku. Duo liked the haikus, even if he didn’t quite understand them.

Everything about Hiiro’s gifts, their form and structure, was beautiful, strong, mysterious. Very much like the person who created them.

Duo’s shrine of papers steadily grew.

**[9. Blank]**

He started writing haikus of his own, squeezing them in the margins of his notebook or measuring out syllables as he fell asleep at night. Duo found the words came to him more easily if he did like Hiiro suggested and emptied his mind of distractions, making it as blank and quiet as a snowy winter garden.

He sent some poems to Hiiro. Others he kept for himself, too timid to share. At least yet.

 _The dove in its cage_  
_calling softly to its mate;_  
_when will he be freed?_

The poems grew more intimate. Soon they had become confessions.

**[10. Cellblock]**

Hiiro sensed a growing desperation in Duo’s letters. _The town feels like a prison to me_ , he wrote. _All cellblocks and curfews. I’m tired of waiting for the war to end. I’m enlisting._

He commended Duo’s courage, congratulated him on joining the U.S. Paratroops, but the words were hollow. For the next three years, Hiiro awaited each letter with dread in his heart.

In November 1945, Hiiro Yui was unexpectedly released from the Tule Lake Segregation Center to the olive-drab embrace of Sergeant Maxwell, who gave him a paper crane made out of a Reichsmark.

The War was finally over.


End file.
